


Christmas, Minnesota

by oselle



Series: Birthright [23]
Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oselle/pseuds/oselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeke and Casey, Christmas at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas, Minnesota

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains profanity, underage drinking, unflattering depiction of a major retail chain, inappropriate use of a national and religious holiday, bad Cockney accents and more.

It was Christmas Eve, so Zeke splurged on a bottle of Chivas Regal. He hadn’t had so much as a taste of Chivas in years, not since his father had still lived at home and used to drink it now and then, jewel-bright in a crystal tumbler full of ice.

 _This is the good stuff,_ his father used to say, and give Zeke a sip. It had burned, but in a nice sort of way, and afterwards, Zeke had felt warm and content and sleepy.

Zeke thought that he could use that feeling now. Frankly, Casey could probably use it even more than Zeke. Zeke generally didn’t think alcohol and Casey were a good combination, but Casey had been a wreck since the thing at Wal-Mart, and some good old-fashioned holiday cheer wouldn’t kill him.

 _What the hell, it’s Christmas,_ Zeke thought, and took a smaller bottle of the good stuff off the shelf.  


  
_____  
  


It had been Zeke’s brilliant idea to put up a Christmas tree. There was a guy who sold trees next to the gas station in town and he’d let Zeke have one of the little three-foot rejects for five bucks. Zeke had come home and stuck it in a bucket of water in the corner of the living room where it had sat looking lopsided and sad.  
  
“It needs decorations,” Casey had said, and Zeke had begun to think the whole thing had been a really stupid idea.  
  
He had taken Casey with him to the Wal-Mart in LaPlatte. Going anywhere with Casey was a pain in the ass, but leaving him behind was worse. Casey was terrified of being alone and Zeke never knew what he would find when he returned. The best-case scenario was finding Casey in an exhausted sleep or a petulant sulk. Worse would be finding Casey in a fit of hysterics, with self-inflicted wounds on his hands, arms or head. Worst of all, unthinkable, would be coming back to the trailer to find Casey dead or gone. Just gone.  
  
It was always better to take Casey with him.  
  
Casey had been in a weird mood all day, not talking, gnawing on his lip or his nails. He’d asked Zeke for cigarettes and Zeke had given him three, as many as he’d let Casey have at any one time. Casey had gone outside and Zeke had watched him smoke on the trailer’s concrete steps, rocking back and forth with his eyes on the bleak white horizon. Casey had been wearing the navy wool coat that Zeke had bought him at Goodwill; Minnesota was the coldest place they’d ever spent the winter and neither of them had had warm enough clothing. The coat was warm but too big for Casey’s scrawny frame -- Zeke thought he looked some waif out of _Oliver Twist_ in it, and every time he saw Casey walking around with all the extra material bunched up under his arms, Zeke would hear a little Cockney voice in his head saying, _Please sir, may oi ‘ave some more?_ It was funny, in its own pathetic way.  


  
_____  
  


“I want to go home,” Casey had said in a tense voice when they had pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot.  
  
Zeke had closed his eyes for a minute. “Casey, we just got here. We’ll be in and out. It’s Christmas shopping, it’ll be fun.”  
  
Casey had shot Zeke a miserable look, but had gotten out of the car and followed Zeke into the store, holding his coat around himself.  
  
Even on a mid-week afternoon, Wal-Mart ten days before Christmas was enough to drive anyone nuts. Casey’s discomfort was radiating off him in waves; there were too many lights, too many people, way too much noise. Zeke thought about coming back another day when Casey might feel better, but they were here now and they might as well get it over with. Zeke needed to pick up more than Christmas decorations, and the fewer trips he had to make into town the better.  
  
He had tried to get Casey interested in the Christmas ornaments, but when Zeke asked Casey if he liked this or that, Casey had only answered, “Whatever . . . whatever, let’s just go!” in a panic-tinged voice that told Zeke Casey was on the edge of flipping out.  
  
Zeke had looked down into Casey’s face. “Don’t lose it on me here, Casey. We’re just gonna pay for this and go, okay? Nothing to worry about. Just stay cool.”  
  
“Yeah,” Casey had said, but he had been white-faced with anxiety.  
  
The thing had happened right after they had paid. They had almost been through the door when a man in a suit with a Wal-Mart nametag had come up behind them and put his hand on Casey’s shoulder.  
  
“Excuse me, sir,” the man had said, and both Casey and Zeke had turned around at the same time. “Would you come with me, please?”  
  
“What’s the problem?” Zeke had asked tersely. Beside him, Casey’s breathing had already ramped up a notch.  
  
“No problem, sir. I’d just like to check your friend’s coat.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“If you’d just come with me, sir.”  
  
“No,” Zeke had said, putting a reassuring hand on Casey’s arm. “He didn’t take anything.”  
  
“I believe you sir, we just want to be sure of that.”  
  
People had begun to glance in their direction. “Zeke,” Casey had said breathlessly.  
  
“It’s okay, Casey,” Zeke had said, then leaned towards the security guard. “Look, my brother’s autistic,” Zeke had whispered, reverting to the old story. “He gets really upset around strangers and you’re scaring him. I know he didn’t take anything . . . look . . . here’s my receipt, now come on . . . sir. Please.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re right, but if both of you will just come with me for a moment we can have this all cleared up.”  
  
Zeke had been about to agree, anything to get the hell out of there, when the security guard had clamped his hand around Casey’s upper arm and that had been it.  
  
“ _NO_!” Casey had shrieked. He had twisted himself out of the man’s grasp and before Zeke could stop him, he had bolted.  
  
“Jesus Christ!” Zeke had shouted, “ _FUCK! Casey!_ ”  
  
Zeke had taken off after Casey, the security guard on his heels. Now _everyone_ was staring. Zeke couldn’t imagine the situation getting any worse -- a terrified Casey on the run in Wal-Mart and a quarter of the population of LaPlatte witnessing it, maybe going home and talking about it. Maybe getting the attention of the wrong people.  
  
Zeke had finally found Casey because he had heard him screaming. He had backed himself into a corner in Sporting Goods and two other security guards, in uniform this time, had been trying to drag him out.  
  
“Let him go! He’s fucking autistic, let him go!” Zeke had pushed the guards aside and gotten down on the floor to take Casey in his arms. Casey had shuddered and pressed his back against the wall. “It’s all right, buddy, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s Zeke, it’s just me, okay? Casey?”  
  
Casey had opened his eyes and stared at Zeke fearfully, but with recognition in his eyes, and Zeke had drawn him into a careful embrace.  
  
“It’s all right. Shhh, shhh. It’s okay.”  
  
Casey had been shaking so badly he hadn’t been able to put his arms around Zeke. “Zeke,” he had sobbed. “Zeke, don’t let them, please, Zeke . . .”  
  
“No one’s gonna touch you. It’s okay. Shhh. Shhh.”  
  
From behind him, Zeke had heard a lady ask in her flat Midwestern accent, “What’s _wrong_ with him?” A man, maybe the security guard, had answered, “He says he’s autistic.”  
  
“Ohhh,” the lady had said. “Like _Rainman_.”  
  
 _You don’t know the fucking half of it, lady_ , Zeke had thought, and returned to murmuring words of comfort into Casey’s ear and rubbing his back through the bulky coat.  


  
_____  
  


The store manager had apologized, explaining that several security guards had observed Casey’s nervous behavior, and that it was common for shoplifters to wear clothes that were too big for them.  
  
 _May oi ‘ave some more_ , Zeke had thought, and it hadn’t been funny at all.  
  
They had offered Zeke a gift certificate for a future visit. They wanted him to understand that Wal-Mart was sensitive to the needs of the mentally challenged.  
  
“He’s not retarded,” Zeke had said absently, stuffing the gift certificate in his pocket.  
  
“No, of course not, sir,” the manager had said, and turned a pitying smile on Casey, huddled up in one of the manager’s office chairs.  


  
_____  
  


A dry prairie snow had begun to fall on the drive home, blowing like sand across the blacktop. Zeke had taken his eyes from the empty road and looked at Casey. Casey had started chewing his fingers again. He hadn’t done it the whole time they’d been in Minnesota.  
  
“Casey?” Zeke had asked quietly. “You want to listen to the radio?”  
  
Casey hadn’t answered. By the time they’d reached the trailer, he’d drawn blood from both hands.  
  
Casey had collapsed into sleep as soon as they had gotten home, and Zeke had sat on the edge of the bed, binding up Casey’s bloody hands. Casey’s fingers had been ice cold. Zeke had sat chafing them, unwillingly hearing Casey’s voice in his mind, pleading, _Don’t let them_.  
  
Zeke’s tired mind had strayed to a place he seldom liked to go, imagining what had happened to Casey in that hospital. He had thought about electroshock, pills, injections, lies. He had run his fingers over the razor-scars on Casey’s arms, and the fainter markings on his wrists that Casey said had been made by restraints. _Restraints._ Zeke had thought of the store security guards hauling Casey out of the corner.    
  
 _Don’t let them._  
  
“I won’t,” Zeke had said over Casey’s cold hands. “Never, man.”  
  
Zeke had left Casey to sleep and gone to decorate that stupid tree.  


  
_____  
  


Zeke had needed to sedate Casey every night after that so that he would get at least some sleep. On the third night, after Casey had woken him up with a screaming nightmare in spite of the sleeping pills, Zeke had gone into the kitchen for a cigarette. He had yanked the Wal-Mart gift certificate off the refrigerator door and thrown it in the trash.  
  
 _Fuck you and your fucking store,_ he had thought.  
  
After he had finished the cigarette, Zeke had taken the certificate out of the trash, brushed it off and put it back on the fridge. It was for fifty bucks, and they needed fifty bucks.  


  
_____  
  


So here they were, Christmas Eve.  
  
Casey had been in a better mood for the past couple of days. He still picked and gnawed at himself and couldn’t sleep through the night, but the Christmas tree made him happy. Even Zeke had to admit it didn’t look half bad, in a Charlie Brownish sort of way. Casey also liked the snow. He liked the Christmas specials on TV. It was good enough for Zeke.  
  
Zeke couldn’t cook for shit, but he was good at defrosting things and heating stuff up. He had picked up chicken potpie at the supermarket and Casey had eaten it with rare enthusiasm. Casey also liked the Pepperidge Farm cake that Zeke had defrosted, and now he was sitting cross-legged on the fold-out couch in the living room, eating golden cake and waiting for _It’s a Wonderful Life_ to come on. Zeke thought that movie was crap, but Casey remembered it, which was extraordinary for Casey, and wanted to see it.    
  
Zeke turned off the lights except for the Christmas tree and the lamp beside the couch. The wife of Zeke’s landlord made lamps out of wine bottles as a hobby. Apparently, she had a great taste for Lancers, because most of the lamps in the trailer were Lancers bottles with shades in various degrees of awfulness -- a blood-clotty maroon gingham, burlap, some horrible floral thing with beads that looked like it belonged in a Las Vegas whorehouse. The Lancers lamp beside the couch had the burlap shade. Casey was fond of it for some demented reason that only Casey understood, and he liked to have it on all the time.  
  
Zeke brought the Chivas bottle and two glasses with ice over to the couch. He poured two fingers of whiskey for Casey, and three fingers for himself.  
  
“Merry Christmas Eve, Casey,” Zeke said.  
  
Casey was already lying down on the folded-out couch, pillows propped behind his head. He lifted himself on one elbow and took the glass.  
  
“What’s this?” he asked.  
  
 “A little holiday spirit,” Zeke said, settling down beside Casey. “Cheers.” He clinked his glass against Casey’s.  
  
Casey sniffed the whiskey, and then downed it in one gulp.  
  
Zeke laughed. “You’d better take it easy, you’ve got a three-hour movie to get through.”  
  
“That’s not bad,” Casey said.  
  
“Yeah,” Zeke answered. “It’s the good stuff.”  


  
_____  
  


They had gone through half the bottle by the movie’s second commercial break, and Zeke was feeling warm and mellow. Judging from the drowsy, contented look on his face, Casey was in a pretty happy place, too.  
  
Casey emptied his glass and curled up beside Zeke, his head on Zeke’s shoulder. Zeke put an arm around him and gazed placidly at the black-and-white images on the television.  
  
Abruptly, Casey said, “I’m sorry about what happened in Wal-Mart.”  
  
Zeke was surprised; he was always unsure of what Casey understood to be real. So often, Casey seemed to forget things that had happened only a little while ago, or think they had been a particularly bad dream or hallucination.  
  
“Forget it, man. It wasn’t your fault. They’re assholes.”  
  
Casey laughed a little. His head was warm and heavy against Zeke’s shoulder. “I like this part,” he said sleepily.  
  
“Mm-hm,” Zeke said.  
  
“When the floor opens and the pool is there. That’s cool. They should have done that at Herrington.”  
  
“Too cheap,” Zeke muttered. He ran his hand slowly through Casey’s hair, and Casey nestled closer against him, smelling like shampoo and liquor. Zeke put his head back and let himself doze off to the sound of Jimmy Stewart’s voice and Casey humming “Buffalo Gals” close to his ear.  


  
_____  
  


Zeke didn’t know what time it was when he woke up, but the movie was finished and the station had switched over to a program of Christmas carols. A shopping-mall version of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” was playing, accompanied by the metallic popping of the baseboard heaters as they cycled on. He could hear Casey’s breathing, and feel Casey’s hand on his face. He had a moment to be glad that Casey’s hand was warm for a change, and then he realized that Casey wasn’t just touching his face, he was _stroking_ his face.  
  
Zeke turned his head but was still too asleep (correction: too _drunk_ ) to open his eyes. “Case?” he asked.  
  
Casey murmured something and then Zeke felt Casey’s mouth against his face. He felt Casey kiss him lightly, on the cheek, then again a little further down, then again, moving down the line of his jaw. It tickled. He let Casey go on for a little bit, until Casey had worked his way up to the corner of Zeke’s mouth. _What the hell is he doing?_ Zeke thought with drowsy amusement.  
  
“Casey,” Zeke said. “What are you doing?”  
  
Casey gave a low, boozy chuckle. “Nothing,” he slurred.  
  
Zeke opened his eyes and looked up at Casey. Casey’s face was flushed deep pink and his half-lidded eyes were bright with alcohol and drunken affection.  
  
“You’re fucking loaded, man,” he laughed.  
  
Casey snorted. “So are you.”  
  
Well, that was true, but when Zeke’s eyes flicked to the table next to the couch, he saw that the Chivas bottle was almost empty. He looked back at Casey. “You’re gonna have some fucking headache tomorrow, Case.”  
  
Casey smiled. “I don’t have one now,” he said, and the next thing Zeke knew, Casey’s mouth was on his.  
  
Zeke found himself in something of a predicament. Because whatever was going on here wasn’t particularly unpleasant, especially not in the warm Chivas haze that filled Zeke’s head. And it had been quite some time since anyone had kissed him at all -- and he was almost completely certain that _Casey_ had _never_ kissed anyone, not like this. In fact, it was pretty obvious that Casey, especially three-sheets-to-the-wind Casey, didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing. So what, exactly, was Zeke supposed to do? Put an abrupt stop to it like some Catholic schoolgirl and freak the shit out of Casey? Lie there until Casey finally passed out? Or -- and this was the loose, scotch-swaddled part of Zeke’s brain talking -- have a little holiday fun with the situation?  
  
Zeke pulled his mouth away from Casey’s. “Casey, man,” he said. “Where the fuck did you learn to kiss?”  
  
Casey’s eyebrows drew together. “What . . .” he started, but before he could say another word, Zeke had rolled him onto his back.  
  
“If you’re gonna kiss someone, Casey,” Zeke said, and planted a noisy smooch on Casey’s right cheek while Casey giggled, “Whether you’re drunk off your ass or not,” and he kissed Casey’s left cheek, “You’d better damn well do it right.” Zeke closed his mouth over Casey’s. Casey’s giggles ended in a faint squeak of surprise that descended to a sighing moan. He opened his mouth beneath Zeke’s and Zeke realized he was kissing him, was kissing _Casey Connor_ , and along with the not-particularly-unpleasantness of the sensation, the absurdity of the whole thing was high in Zeke’s mind.  
  
Casey sighed again and his hands came up to Zeke’s face. Zeke reflexively covered one of Casey’s hands with his own and felt the scabs of Casey’s latest bout of self-abuse, the raw marks left by Casey’s tormented chewing and clawing at himself. Zeke closed his hand on Casey’s. He heard Casey’s voice, _Don’t let them, please, Zeke._ He thought about electroshock, pills, injections, restraints and lies.  
  
Suddenly it didn’t seem so absurd to be kissing Casey. That Casey should need to be kissed.  
  
Zeke left the warmth of Casey’s mouth and trailed fierce kisses up the side of his face. He could feel Casey smiling, and Zeke’s eyes were suddenly damp, his throat tight.  
  
“It’s all right, Casey. It’s all right, it’s all right,” he whispered.  
  
“Yes, Zeke,” Casey murmured, and his voice was distant. “Everything’s all right.” His hand was limp and relaxed in Zeke’s and his eyes were closed. “It’s Christmas.”  
  
Zeke laid his cheek against Casey’s and rested there, feeling Casey’s breath settle into a steady, deep rhythm. “Silent Night” was playing on the television and the baseboards were cycling off.  
  
After a while, Zeke shifted and sat up. He got up and turned off the television. The deep Minnesota silence pressed on his ears, barely stirred by Casey’s breathing and the faint tick of snow against the window. He pushed aside the curtain and watched the snow fall.  
  
Zeke unplugged the Christmas tree. The light in the room was warm and honey-colored from the burlap shade on the Lancers lamp. He lifted Casey in his arms and carried him to bed. Casey didn’t stir or make a sound.  
  
Zeke looked at Casey for a long moment, then sighed briefly and kissed him on the forehead.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Casey.”  
  
Zeke turned off the light. He pulled up the covers, wrapped an arm around Casey and went to sleep.


End file.
